[Stickers]

Despite her dirty mouth, and extensive knowledge of acts and techniques that even he, in all his years of practice had no concept of, he should have known. The tip-off was the stickers. Rather than call and text, she would spend the time scribing notes on wide-ruled loose leaf paper. She’d told him that she enjoyed writing with a smooth pen on a thick stack of clean sheets. And when she wrote his name, she crafted the bottom curves of the ‘W’ round, like a great pair of tits. Then, around these obscene and beautifully drawn characters, she’d employ clusters of stickers. Rainbow stars. Hearts. Sketchy monochrome guns and brass knuckles–the act was cute, charming, innocent, and completely unlike the girl he’d spent a great deal of time with. Jake Geiger just wasn’t the sticker type.
Then, when he figured in her social distance, he had to admit that she left far too much to the imagination. What about the past? What things had she experienced, people she knew, actions she’d taken already? Not that he had to know the minutia. The thought of her giving a detailed example of where she’d learned about the male ‘G’ spot, or the possibility of giving a man multiple orgasms made his stomach knot.
“Why?”
He shrugged.
“I don’t ask you about your history,” she said.
“Could,” he offered.
“Believe me, I don’t need to know about the hundreds of girls you’ve bedded, Mac.”
“Hundreds. Shit,” he said. His lips twitched in a boyish smirk.
“Oh, get over yourself,” she sighed, waving her hand at him.
“Seriously. Who’ve you gone out with?”
He lowered his lids and stuck out his bottom lip a smidge to sweeten the deal. She tipped her head down to peer at her hands, spreading her fingers and relaxing them.
“Puppy dog eyes? Really?” She exhaled through her nose. “Teddy.”
“And?”
She shook her head, shoving those hands in her pockets and switching from one foot to the other. She wasted time raking the hair from her face and sighing again. After another moment, when she must’ve known what he did–that he wouldn’t give her an out, she said, “Polk.”
He blinked.
“My mechanic?”
“Yeah.”
“When?”
“A long time ago. When we were kids.”
Though faded, his smirk lingered.
“You’re still a kid, Geiger.”
“Hey, I may look fourteen, but I’m not, okay?”
His eyebrows waggled and he tipped his head to one side.
“Y’act like it, too.”
Her lips scrunched together.
“Go fuck yourself.”
He took advantage of her facing the other way and collected her loose hair back behind her ear. As he did it, he prepared for her to spring away, possibly swatting at him as she did so. He had a scar cutting through the flag tattooed on his arm from when she smacked him with ripped nails. Instead, she shook her head.
“It’s none of your business,” she said.
“Would’ju tell me if I let’chu write it down?”
She turned her head to see him out of the corner of her eye.
“Why would that make a difference?”
“Y’always like leavin’ notes,” he said, “With all them little pictures.”
“Oh, I see. You think I’m a child because I happen to like stickers, is that it?”
“Dudn’t help.”
“Mm, and whatever I do, you have to criticize, right?”
“When do I criticize you?”
“You just called me a kid!”
“Gimme another time.”
“I don’t need to give another time.”
“‘Cause there ain’t one.”
“No. Because I don’t have to. Because there’s too many instances to count.”
“If there’s that many, you should be able to pull one outta your ass,” he said.
“I would, but I don’t think you’d hear it with your head so far up yours.”
“Shout real loud,” he said.
She stared for a second, then shook her head and sniffed.
“C’mon,” he said, brushing his fingers through the shorn hair behind her ear.
“What did I say about touching?”
“Ya said somethin’ ’bout touchin’?” he asked, “Couldn’t hear it.”
“Cute.”
He scrubbed his palm through her hair, making the top layer stand on end like a tropical bird. A scowl engraved itself on her face.
“Whatever happened to forgetting I was a girl, anyway?”
“When’d I do that?”
“Is it going to be one of those nights, Mac?” she sighed.
He tipped close to her ear and whispered, “You want it to be?”
“Oh, my God, War, just because every other girl can’t help but drop her panties at the sight of you–”
“You got’churs fastened too tight fer that.”
“Yep, that’s it. My cunt’s got a dead-bolt.”
He grinned, touched his nose to her temple, and returned his mouth back to her ear.
“Anybody got that key?”
Before she could insult him, or yell, or whatever else she planned on letting free from her mouth, a dark flush spread out over her cheekbones and across the bridge of her nose. He reached up to cup the opposite cheek, and continued to nuzzle her with a knowing nod.
“Ah,” he said.
“What?”
“You’re that model ’68 Camaro we saw,” he murmured, reverent, “Never driven.”
“Please,” she said, “I’ve been driven plenty of times.”
“By who?”
“By. . .by plenty of guys. It’s none of your business.”
His hands dropped down to allow his arms to slip around her and hold her against him.
“Never once.”
“Stop it,” she warned.
“I shoulda known you were cherry.”
Her hands clamped halfway round his arms to attempt to pull them off her–nothing doing. Then she wriggled like bait approaching a hook. He brushed the edge of his thumb over her clavicle, down the curve of her shoulder, and back up again, catching his rough skin against the over-washed cotton of her shirt. She dropped her struggling and stomped a foot.
“Great! Now you know! Can we leave it the hell alone?”
“Why ya yellin’?”
“Because you’re a prick, that’s why.”
War pressed his face into the curve at the back of her skull.
“‘M always a prick.”
“No kidding.”
He slid himself back up to full-height and rested his chin on her crown. Despite all the agitation he could feel prickling through her skin into his, he felt more relaxed than he could remember in recent history. Teddy, the nicest guy in the world, had never touched her; further, Polk, an open skinhead and good-girl magnet hadn’t popped her, either.
That was good.
Fuckin’ stellar.